Could You Go On?
by fmapreshwab
Summary: Rodney finds something in John's room that makes him think twice. McShep.


There are only a handful of people who know about the private coffee stash I keep behind the false panel in my lab, and only one of them has ever had the right mix of balls and stupidity to try and steal it, so it was a safe bet that John was playing one of his little games when it went missing.

I was all stealth and sneaky. I waited until he was on duty, training marines with Ronon or something, then broke into his room. I was digging around the trunk he kept at the foot of his bed, when I found something that struck me as odd. It seemed simple enough, a wadded piece of paper in the corner of the trunk, but for some reason I was curious. I smoothed it out and put it on his bed, saving it for after I had completed my search.

I didn't find what I was looking for, and I almost stalked dejectedly out of the room. At the last minute, I remembered the paper and flopped down on his bed. It was a letter.

To whom it may concern (and probably Rodney):

This letter is probably the closest thing I'll ever have to a will, and it should only be read after my death. I wrote it just after the retro-virus incident, and it really means a lot, so please, just humor me and do a few things. It's a small list, just a couple of things I never found the time for.

Tell my family I died fighting. Don't tell them how or why, just tell them I fought for my friends and they were better for it. I need them to at least think that, even if it doesn't turn out true.

Read a passage from War and Peace at the funeral, the last page. I'm probably never going to finish the damned thing, so this is as close as I'll come. Also, play something by Cash instead of "Taps". That song always depressed me.

Bury me here, on the mainland near the city. Someplace in the South, where it'll be warm and sunny most of the year.

Don't let anyone take the blame for my death. We've lost enough personnel for me to know that someone always comes out feeling guilty, and that's not what I want. Nobody should have to shoulder responsibility for me.

I've recorded some personal messages onto the city's mainframe with the rest of my files. Just a few last words to some of the city's residents. The password encryption will drop when Carson files my death certificate. Distribute them accordingly.

One last thing. Every now and then, when the sun is shining and the wind is warm, if anyone can still remember, if there's anyone left to try, just think of me. If nothing else, keep my spirit alive.

I guess that's it. Keep my city as well as you can without me, and never lose hope. Thanks.

Good luck and Godspeed,

John

When I put the letter down, I was crying. Despite facing death every day, the idea of John dying always seemed elusive, vague. I had always assumed that if he died, I would go with him, but the very first line said he'd envisioned a reality where we lived on without him. I turned and cried into his pillow, even as I heard the door slide open. Hesitant footsteps approached me from behind, then I heard the crumple of paper as he sat down beside me.

After a moment, I turned and saw his face, looked into his eyes. He wasn't angry that I'd broken into his room, wasn't mocking me for crying, even though I probably looked like a twelve-year-old girl with a runny nose. He was sad. There was a deep understanding to the look he gave me, but more than that there was a damp shimmer to his eyes that I couldn't attribute to his normal Sheppard-ness.

I threw my arms around his waist and buried my face in his chest. His arms closed around me, and he comforted me. His head fell on top of mine, and we cried together.

I'm not sure how long we stayed like that, but eventually I must have fallen asleep, because I woke in his arms. It felt right, somehow, that I should be there, with him. There was a perfect moment when the sun filtered in through the high window near the ceiling, light floating down to hit his face, and he looked almost angelic.

Now here I am, in his bed, with Radek in my ear screaming about where the hell have I been all night, and John stirs. I click off the radio to avoid disturbing him further, but it's too late.

Without even opening his eyes, he leans down and kisses me, lightly but with a hungry passion. Blood rushes to color my cheeks as he straightens, leaning his head back against the wall behind his bed. "Morning," he draws, definitely not yet awake. He opens his eyes and blinks down at me. For a moment, everything is still, then awareness hits him like a fully loaded Mack truck. "Rodney?"

I grin up at his sheepishly bewildered stare. "I was just leaving," I assure him, patting lightly the arm he has encircling my waist. "Don't forget, we have a mission briefing later." It seems strange to be talking like this, like everything's normal, after what happened last night, but life goes on and we have things that we need to do.

"What time is it?" he asks, still groggy.

"Good question." I check the clock and almost let loose one of the shrill squeaks he's always telling me I make. "Scratch that, we have a briefing ten minutes ago."

"Shit," he curses, still not moving. "Elizabeth's going to kill us."

"Well, are you coming, or should I tell the others it would be more convenient to move our meeting to your quarters?" I snap, grinning madly.

"Think they'd go for it?" he asks, finally rising.

"Oh, I'm sure. Radek has a pool running on just when, exactly, Teyla will end up here."

He grins wryly. "That'll be a long wait for a train ain't coming." He throws on his uniform jacket, evidently content with going to the meeting in the same uniform he wore yesterday, not that anyone will notice. "Come on, Rodney, we can radio them on the way up."

"What'll we say when they ask why we're late?"

He considers it just a moment, then shrugs, grinning. "I'm sure you'll come up with something."

"Of course," I mutter, only slightly irritated. My mind springs back to the original reason for my little visit. "Uh, John, one last thing before we go…," I trail of expectantly, convinced he knows what I'm going to ask.

He doesn't disappoint. "Under the mattress, top left corner next to the 9 mm," he says without turning, but I can hear the grin in his voice.

I check, and there they are, in all there dark, slow roasted, Columbian glory—my coffee beans. "I'll just keep that in mind next time," I mutter to myself, certain he can't hear me.

"Oh, and uh, Rodney," he says as we walk out the door, earning semi-curious glances from passing marines and my science staff.

"What?"

He pauses, turning that prize winning John Sheppard grin on me. A small chill runs through me. "Break into my room again and I'll tell the marines who's been sending half their coffee rations to the labs."

"You wouldn't," I say in mock apprehension. I know full well he would, and very possibly already has.

"From now on, you only go in my room when I want you there."

"Oh?"

"Which just so happens to include right after the briefing."


End file.
